


safety’s in the sights

by yakyuu_yarou



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Polyamory, Light Bondage, Magical Gag, Mindfuck, Other, Pre-Negotiated Kink, Sub!Sasha, dom!wilde
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:07:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26882635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yakyuu_yarou/pseuds/yakyuu_yarou
Summary: Sasha was too stuck inside her own mind to notice just how badly she was holding up. Wilde noticed, and decided to help.
Relationships: Sasha Racket & Oscar Wilde
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	safety’s in the sights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ExLibrisCraux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExLibrisCraux/gifts).



> Hey, look, when I go to my dearest corvid and go “I wanna write you something, you can request _anything_ “, and she says “sashawilde dubcon”, then I ... provide.  
> This was, frankly, quite scary, because Sasha was always intimidating to me, and I’ve never actually written dubcon fic before, but I’m pleased with how it turned out.  
> Craux, you’re the best and I 💙 you.
> 
> Title is from _A New Mission_ by Josh Whitehouse.

“Wilde, what—”

A wave of his hand cut Sasha off mid-question, though not for lack of trying — her throat simply refused to produce any more sounds no matter how much she strained against his (so familiar) magic.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” he said (suggested, ordered), and Sasha bared her teeth at his form, half-turned towards the window as he carefully unwound a coil of (ridiculously expensive) rope.

Not that _that_ was necessary, either; she could no longer move beyond small, angry twitches. _Fuck_ , if only she could _run_ —

“I have come to realise,” Wilde interrupted her barely-nascent excuse for an attempt at a plan (and so easily, too, his voice as powerful without the help of his magic as with it), “that I have been neglecting you. All of you, in fact, but _you_ , Sasha, I have been exceptionally cruel to.”

Her mouth opened again to protest — which part of his statement, she wasn’t sure —, but Wilde shushed her just as she remembered that she no longer had a voice.

At least he wasn’t smiling.

Sasha stared in mute fury while he turned toward her and crossed from the window to he— the chair she was now stuck sitting on.

He was so _quiet_ when he wanted to be. And so _fast_. Sasha couldn’t help the way her thoughts snagged on these facts, and she blinked to make them go away.

Her eyes opened again, and Wilde was in front of her. He reached out slowly (why?) to close long fingers gently around one of her wrists. She resisted, strained again as her pulse spiked with fear and rage, but it did nothing: Wilde (gently still) bent her arm behind her back, behind the chair’s backrest (the _one time_ she’d sat down properly—), then (just as gently) did the same with the other.

The cool slide of rope against her skin was no surprise, not really, but she gasped anyway (and was oddly grateful that she _could_ ).

Wilde took a single step backwards (not far at all), and Sasha lifted her head to glare up at him. _Now_ , he smiled, the same sardonic little smirk with just a touch of self-loathing lurking at the corners that she knew so well.

Sasha couldn’t decide if that helped, or if it made things infinitely worse.

Wilde waved his hand again, and the magic holding her immobile ebbed away in a faint trickle: it wasn’t necessary anymore. The rope that was now snugly (but not so snugly as to hurt, she couldn’t help but note, not even when she tugged _hard_ at it) wound around her wrists was tied around one of the rungs that made up the backrest.

“You,” he said, still smiling, but now it seemed almost _sad_ , “have been so dreadfully stuck inside your own head that you can no longer _tell_ how badly you’ve been doing. I have, I think, let you hide inside yourself for far too long, and it’s time I remedied that.”

Again, Sasha opened her mouth to ask _what the fuck_ and again, she only realised that she couldn’t speak when Wilde cut her silent exclamation off, but this time it wasn’t with _words_ or with a gesture.

Wilde cut her off with a song. It was a soft thing, crystalline and lilting, starting slow at first but speeding up a little soon after, and it wormed its way into her mind with ease, slipped through the anger and the terror and the confusion and curled into place at the centre of her thoughts.

There were words in it, but Sasha couldn’t make them out, and she was suddenly too busy to focus on anything but the way the song was settling inside her, not demanding but unavoidable all the same.

She was still staring at Wilde, could no longer remember if she’d blinked and felt no need to do so now.

He was still smiling as he sang, and _something_ in it had changed, but Sasha couldn’t make out what it was, felt the fine threads of what it might be slipping from her every time she tried to grasp at them.

The _song_.

It grew inside her, wound around her fearfully skittering worries and apprehensions and anxieties, not at all smothering but unrelenting, unyielding, inevitable. At the same time, it climbed down her spine, vertebra for vertebra (she could feel each and every one as Wilde’s voice brushed against it), and settled somewhere else, too; formed a ball of low heat in her belly that made her shiver and gasp again.

The longer Wilde was singing — was he even breathing? —, the more her thoughts were wrapped in his song, in the rise and fall of his gentle, lovely voice. She could no longer resist it at all, nor could she concentrate on the _what_ and _how_ and _why_ of it no matter how hard she tried, and in the end, she— _stopped_. Stopped worrying, stopped _thinking_.

The song shifted, just a little, grew richer in tone, and though she couldn’t parse what it meant, it was _nice._ It also sent more heat trickling down her spine, sent it swirling into the core low in her gut, and she squirmed a little when the heat turned from a low and pleasant simmer to a shimmering (but still _pleasant_ ) burn.

Sasha whined softly and squirmed a little in the chair.

Wilde’s voice seemed to grow louder in her mind, though she was sure he hadn’t raised it in reality, and the heat rose with it, climbed higher and higher and back up her spine until she couldn’t hold still any longer, until she was almost writhing against the back of her chair and making small, undefined noises every time her breath left her.

It kept building, the song with the heat on its heels, and all of a sudden, something bright and sparking rose up behind her eyes and made her close them, made her _moan_ as the heat inside her belly exploded like fireworks at some posh sod’s party.

She lost track of the world in the wake of it, too busy trailing after each spark, letting them drag her along as they wished while the ropes and Wilde’s softening, slowing song held her in place.

When she opened her eyes again, Wilde was— not gone but behind her, quickly and efficiently untying the rope from the chair but not her wrists. He stepped around again, and Sasha blinked up at him owlishly, still trying to bring the world back into focus, if only to gauge his expression.

After a moment, the fuzziness faded some, and she recognised his smile as the private one that meant he was proud (of her, probably; of himself … maybe) but wouldn’t say it.

She wouldn’t, either, not when it was clear that this was something he considered his responsibility. Instead, she silently let him lift her off the chair, turning into his chest to breathe _in_ as he carried her over to the bed. He set her down so gently she barely felt it at all, just went from the expensive but worn fabric of his clothes to the cheap but clean sheets without any sense of an impact, and settled in next to her with only the shortest of hesitations.

She curled into him immediately, turned enough to rest her head on his chest, and, with a voice that was hoarse with sounds she’d made and things she hadn’t been able to say, murmured “thank you.”

— fin —

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed 💙


End file.
